


things that consume

by thnderchld



Series: when they fall [1]
Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Assassin AU, F/F, F/M, Friendship, Light Angst, Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-12
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-19 01:59:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1451236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thnderchld/pseuds/thnderchld
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>they lead and follow each other; into the very depths of rhija itself, preparing for the fall of conquerers. casualties fall in their wake; people die, and they grow up together, under the very eyes of la herself. together they gain clans and scars, together their blood splatters on their old home's earth, as they walk towards an uncertain future that may or may not be in chains.  z/k,</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. part 1: markings

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own only a few of the characters. Other than that I own the plot, the world, the traditions. That is mine, and I wield those weapons into a (hopeful) form of enjoyment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer 2: Lack of punctuation is deliberate, but starting from Chapter 3 I shall revert to Capitalisation and punctuation norms.

part 1: markings

 

katara rests a five-year-old’s head against the stone bench, letting rivers of dark brown flow out from her scalp beneath her. a lip is worried by white teeth. her brother says the initiation ceremony hurts. katara is afraid of that. she’s five and now she has to choose her clan. her mama wants her to join her brother; sokka, because he will look after her. but she doesn’t want a wolf on her face. and katara can look after herself. besides, the only thing that’ll change is the markings.

 

she lets a ragged, low breath pass her lips, mist frosting the air.

 

then she hears them. footsteps.

 

katara is fully aware of where she shouldn’t be. quickly she jumps from the bench and hides behind a bush. her heart beats a blossoming rhythm as she waits for the soldiers to pass. she’s not scared though. she’s always here if you look hard enough. she knows how to be quiet.

 

the footsteps are lighter than usual, skipping every few seconds like when her little shaker would chime out of tune.

 

but suddenly the footsteps pause. katara finds herself curious and clinches her eyes shut to stop the desire to peer through the leaves. but when she opens her eyes again she’s met with a boyish face. she squeals, falling back against the leaves.

 

when she sits up, he’s giggling. he seems to be only two years older than her. he has pale skin and cherry cheeks, and dark, dark hair. on his face is carved a slender, snaking dragon. it looks like one of the palace paintings of nichang dragons.

 

‘you haven’t got a clan yet,’ he suddenly points out.

 

‘i’m only five,’ katara pouts. ‘i’m choosing tomorrow.’

 

‘oh. what clan?’

 

‘i’m not sure,’ katara sighs.

 

‘oh.’ the boy falls into silence, before asking her name.

 

‘katara.’

 

‘i’m zuko,’ the boy says, suddenly smiling. ‘where do you come from? you look different.’

 

‘so! how does that impact?” katara hisses, crossing her arms.

 

‘sorry. but i don’t care though, so don’t worry.’

 

‘i don’t. i come from rima. or at least, that’s where i was born before mama, papa, gran-gran, sokka, and me moved to the capitol rhija.’

 

‘oh, cool! i was born here. do you know what the country looks like?” he blinks golden eyes at her, innocence not yet tarnished.

 

‘barely. i went by train. i think it’s got a lot of green. green and brown and animals.’

 

‘i love animals! we have ducks in the pond!’

 

katara’s eyes widen. ‘baby ones?’

 

‘yeah!’ he grins. then they hear the clanking of rhijahima armour and zuko is suddenly hidden alongside her. ‘i’m not supposed to be here!’

 

‘me neither,’ katara whispers.

 

they wait for the search party to pass before zuko steps out. ‘i have to go. i might see you again one day.’

 

‘i guess so,’ katara mutters, getting to her own feet. ‘i have to go too.’

 

‘and it doesn’t hurt too much when they mark you. at least it didn’t for me.’

 

‘thanks.’ katara smiles at him before turning and running. ‘bye!’

 

 

it’s slender body weaves and drapes over the top half of her face, tail gliding down past her right eye. by the end of it, there’s a koi fish carved into her face, blood ignored as she chews chigawa nuts.

 

 

katara wakes the next day to find her mother crying, tears dripping over the albatross scar-mark’s wing. ‘why, katara. why the koi fish?’

 

‘i can look after myself, mama,’ she says.

 

but kya simply repeats, ‘why the koi fish.’

 

 

 

katara hates the way that people look at her scar. they whisper under their breaths, pray to agni or la or nouk, and katara is too young to know why. at her girl’s school, there are tigers, and dragons, and unicorns, but she is the only koi.

 

she is almost eight when the water answers her call and comes to greet her.

 

it clothes her hand, magnificent blue winding around like a ribbon. katara is bewildered at first; no one can do this where she lives. but soon enough a gleeful smile is pasted on her face, and she steps into her pond (well, her family’s, but _hers_ ) and lets the water swirl around her while she laughs and dances.

 

then she hears the sound of her mother’s gasp. she rises her gaze to meet pride, but is instead met with sorrow. her mama cries even harder that night; even harder than when their old dog died.

 

katara touches the glossy outline of the koi and wishes she could feel regret.

 

 

 

a few days later, she finds a familiar face in the garden, a few miles from the palace. ‘i’m on a trip with uncle. father didn’t want me to but uncle said he was teaching me military strategy.’ then he frowns. ‘he’s teaching me to make tea, though.’

 

katara giggles and zuko tells her everything he knows.

 

 

 

on her eighth birthday, her blue eyes part, and a smile is shimmering on her lips. _i’m a big girl now!_ she thinks.

 

she jumps out of bed and hears silence. for a moment she thinks that she’s alone, but then she goes to the kitchen and sees her mother, bent before a man in a grey and crimson uniform. his face turns to her and a dragon is carved.

 

‘go find your father, sweetie,’ her mama says, and she sounds scared. katara frowns because her mama is always so brave around strangers.

 

but then her mama’s face relaxes into a look that katara doesn’t recognise. katara turns and runs from the house. ‘papa!’ she calls to hakoda. ‘there’s a strange man in our house!’

 

her father drops a man he’s gripping at the collar, and runs to the house. katara pushes ahead of him, and opens the door to find it absent. but there’s the distinct sight of her mother’s charred body against the floor, eyes wide and unseeing.

 

katara doesn’t even scream, at first. instead, she feels something like a knife inside her.

 

katara, for the first time in her life, feels hatred. it sits like a dead eel in her stomach, the first trickling of blackness in her soul. if she tries she can hear the cracking of her innocence.

 

then she opens her mouth and screams, screams until she’s sure her lungs are bleeding because her throat hurts; until she faints at the end of the day and wishes for kya.

 

 

it’s zuko who holds her.

 

 

 

 

zuko leaves soon enough, and katara waves at him with a smile as he disappears. they promise to meet again. They don’t judge the distances, though.

 

 

 

after his mother leaves, he stays with his uncle and the roles are reversed, for the few days the shogūn lets his gaze fall.

 

 

 

katara hears about it in rumours at school. she isn’t sure who told her, but she remembers, _‘i heard the shogūn_ _got into a fight with his son.’_

_‘parents and children have fights all the time.’_

_‘but like- a_ real _fight.’_

_‘is his son okay?’_

_‘it was an agni kai. the prince lost.’_

katara sits in the garden that belonged to her mama when she was still alive. now it isn’t as pretty, but it is sort of like katara’s necklace (kya’s, really); it is a piece of _before._ the garden sprouts so many beautiful things, thinks katara. she admires it. the temperature of rhija is humid and thick with moisture. katara sometimes tries to make it rain, and it helps the flowers.

 

in response the flowers grow thick; untamed but beautiful. they’re not meant to live here, though. these flowers come from chong-hai, an earth provence miles and miles away.

 

in katara’s mind the scene flashes, and she sees white, _pure_ white; not soot-stained like rhija’s occasional snow. katara is reminded somewhat of what her mother told her before the water obeyed.

 

‘ _katara, where we come from is beautiful. rima was eternally snow-covered, and my guess is it still is. the ice is thicker than the heat here. the gaps in the ice are long, and if you fall you will never get out again.’_

_‘mama, why would we live somewhere with holes?’_

_a light, deep laugh. katara revels in the comfort of her mother, enclosed in arms that are warm but not_ too _warm. ‘my little fish, we lived there for centuries. though our home grew small- until it was unmarked on the map- we had a land all to ourself. it was just us and the wildlife. your father was chief, actually.’_

_‘chief?’_

_‘a better, more civil form of a shogūn.’_

_‘does that mean i’m a princess?’_

_‘you used to be. and to me you always are.’_

_katara giggles as her mama tickles her belly gently. ‘remember, katara, that there is ruso, but they are daughters of the moon, my daughter- always remember that_ rima _is your home, and the ocean is our mother; no matter what people tell you.’_

katara’s hands tremble, and she finds herself clasping them clumsily to her chest like a secret, tipping her head like she’s seen people do. actually, her mother did it when she was very young. ‘mama,’ her voice catches in her throat. ‘ocean. sedna. your hold is vast if you try. i know that the shogūn is our enemy, and thus his son should be- but zuko is undeserving of your hatred. as is his uncle. he deserves not the pain of a cruel father. he’s like me. his mama died the same year as you did, mama; kya. i know that he is ryu the dragon, but please; let no harm come to my friend.’

 

if she tries really, really hard she can hear a whisper rustling through the plants. if she tries really, really, _really_ hard she can imagine it’s her mother delivering her message.

 

katara’s fingers glide up to the skin of her forehead. ‘zuko. be safe.’ her index traces the koi fish on her forehead, and she feels words rising to her lips.

 

‘rima is my home,’ she repeats like a mantra, over and over again until the words are buried in her soul, reaching deeper and deeper inside of her until they’re _her._

she thinks back to when they first moved, the faint memory of years-past snow on her ankles; of what the _shogūn took from her._

the thought comes to her like a wisp of viper venom in her bloodstream, traipsing closer and closer to her soul. soon enough they come as a singular thought, hand in hand. _rima is my home and the shogūn took it from me._

 

katara finds herself running to a safe haven, finds herself in the rhija graveyard. its vastness spreads out. it’s the largest plot of land in the city, except for the palace, and if she shouts- _screams-_ from where she’s standing _no one will hear her._

 

her mouth opens wide and she shrieks into the too-tight, too-polluted air. _‘i hate the shogūn!’_

 

her arms are wide as if to accept the rising moon. _‘i hate the shogūn!’_

 

 

 

 

katara snakes a trickle of liquid from her teacup, and sokka frowns at it. ‘the shogūn wouldn’t approve of you doing that,’ he mutters, spooning breakfast into his mouth.

 

‘wouldn’t what?’

 

katara smiles at the sound of her papa’s voice. he is so rarely home nowadays that his voice is almost as treasured as her mama’s. she repeats the voice every day. she must _never_ forget her mother.

 

‘playing with her tea.’

 

her father smiles. ‘for once your brother knows something.’

 

‘ _hey!’_

hakoda makes up for his absence like this; filling the cracks with the moments that he _is_ here. he chuckles.

 

katara smiles and shrugs. ‘doesn’t matter. i hate the shogūn.’

 

her father splutters. and then he’s gripping katara’s shoulders like a vice. _‘never say that, my daughter._ never _say that!’_

‘dad, it’s fine!’

 

‘ _you don’t know what the shogūn does.’_

 

‘dad, he can’t hear-’

 

‘the shogūn’s spies are _everywhere._ do you have any idea what he does to waterwitches. what he thinks he’s _already_ done?’

 

the words sit like a gaping wound against katara’s chest, festering and rotting until there is only infection.

she tips her head up, and her eyes meet her father’s with an iciness to match her water. ‘he killed my mother, didn’t he.’

 

her father’s jaw tries to work, but he is unused to the severity of his daughter’s anger. he blinks. ‘katara.’

 

‘the shogūn killed my mother. he was trying to kill me. but she told him it was her.’

 

‘katara, no-’

 

‘don’t lie to me, father.’ her voice is rusty, and when she shuts her eyes she sees the charred blackness of her mother’s skin.

 

a sigh emanates from the pit of her bleeding soul. ‘are there any people still living in rima.’ she will not ask a liar an honourable question; so it is not one. it is merely a statement meant to be responded to.

 

‘katara!’ sokka yelps.

 

‘answer me!’

 

hakoda sighs. ‘yes. we left when there were rumours of waterwitches. you made the snow move unnaturally fast even then. we guessed, and knew they would come.’

 

‘that’s why mama was so scared of my…’ katara looks for a word other than _magic._ magic is spirits, and oni, and the stories her mother told her when she was young. ‘bending.’ the word fits in her mouth. ‘my waterbending would bring the shogūn to our door.’

 

hakoda nods numbly.

 

‘and it _did._ ’

 

hakoda’s mouth opens to counter, but katara is rushing to her mother’s old closet and grabbing a few clothes. when she comes out she is in leggings, a tunic, and furred boots.

 

‘and it won’t _ever_ happen again.’


	2. part 2: trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> katara faces the mouth of truth, and a banished prince learns. a before and after is split in two.

 

 

her mother underrated rima’s tribe. it’s _beyond_ beautiful. ship after ship has brought her home, in the end. the snow is clean, and purer than the gliding of sea foam on wave-crests.

 

katara is greeted, at first, with confused stares from only women. she smiles and when she tells her name (and she tells them her sacred last name with a smile in her voice), they congratulate her and envelope her in embraces.

 

she can’t bend; though. not in public, at least. when she strides upon the frozen tundra, frozen water clinging to her sealskins, katara weaves water like a tapestry; the core of life obeying her command.

 

she becomes a water-dancer, of sorts. except it’s away from the prying eyes of civilisation, and her movements reek a form of rhija, something she _will_ forget. forget them all, forget the flowers, forget the shogūn.

 

her days are happy, spent among swirling elements, twirling and flowing with the water beneath.

 

katara only ever misses her brother when the wolves are seen, beautiful wild things, moving with a form of cleverness that is different from sokka, but the same.

 

katara only ever misses her father when she’s elbow-deep in seal flesh, red marring the chestnut skin. blue eyes viewing the blood with a type of morbid recollection.

 

katara only ever misses zuko when the flames lick at the roasting bear meat.

 

but she lived in rhija for the majority of her life, and she knows what an agni kai is. a fight to the death. zuko is dead. he has to be. besides, it was even in the papers! national news of rhija. thinking about this for the first time in months twists a rope in her gut.

 

 

 

 

three years after her arrival, black snow falls from the sky. katara runs, because it reminds her of the black-oozing rhija, spewing fumes of toxicity into the atmosphere.

 

eventually though, she’s standing there with everyone a few feet away from the hull of a ship. it’s not as big as a lot of the ships she’s seen, but living in her home, knowing what ships in rima _mean,_ this ship is _huge._

 

the doors open and out strides a man-boy. his face must have been handsome once, but a scowl rips it apart, and a scar spans over the left side of his face. his scalp is bald except for a ponytail. he flares his nostrils.

 

‘i heard there was a waterwitch here.’

 

katara’s world collapses. now she’s standing still, but the world is dancing, and it’s laughing at **her** _. thought you could be safe, stupid girl? nothing escapes the shogūn._

‘step forward, or we’ll burn the village.’ there’s something familiar in his voice, but she can’t name it.

 

‘there’s no waterbender here,’ she calls, and she hates hates _hates_ the way her voice trembles.

 

‘we have dependable leads,’ he sneers with a shrug. it seems like he has been gentle, once. he looks at them all with deadly ferocity; but no bloodlust.  

 

the man steps forward, finally, and inferno spews from his fist to the ice at katara’s left. and it saps her fear, and katara steps forward, extending work-hardened hands. the water obeys, rising up to clothe her hands. she rocks forward on her heels, and sends it towards the soldier. it strikes him in the chest, but he is sturdy.

 

katara lets an infuriated scream escape her lips.

 

ice rises, envelopes; snow turns to icicles before melting.

 

‘down with the shogūn!’ she finds her voice. ‘ _the shogūn will die!’_

 

the ice encloses, trapping the soldier in a cold embrace.

 

‘not before he kills _you!’_ he shouts.

 

there’s a glow of orange and the ice explodes; katara sending a shield over her people. they watch in horror; they are not familiar with the extent of katara’s anger.

 

‘prince zuko!’ comes a cry from the ship.

 

katara slips. her head drops to the snow. _the spirits are punishing me._

she sees shadows moving towards her through the dark, and somehow she gets back to her feet in time. ‘what kind of alias is that!’ she cries, upturning snow, and tunnelling it towards the soldier. ‘naming yourself after a dead prince? talk about _loyalty.’_

the soldier’s good eye is widening; he is slowing.

 

good. katara’s breath comes heavily as her pace slows to match his.

 

finally they are both on their knees, panting from exhaustion. her bending has drained her, and she places her forehead to the frozen land. ‘katara!’ comes a yell.

 

now it’s the soldier who’s fainted.

 

 

 

 

katara grudgingly fixes him (though he does _not_ deserve it) and stays up at all hours to see if he wakes.

 

on the fourth day he develops a fever.

katara runs a cool palm across his forehead, hairs starting to peek out from the expanse of paleness. she sighs, too old and too young for this. he’ll yell, sometimes, but katara feels no pity. only empathy. at some point she is leaning against the chair, eyelids drooping.

 

‘you know,’ she says lazily, because there is no one else to talk to, ‘you put up a good fight, whatever your name is.’

 

his brow scrunches, and katara presses the back of her hand to his forehead. only now does she notice it: a dragon’s body snaking across his face. she picks up his hand and presses the tips of his fingers to her koi fish.

 

‘you’re a lot different to your namesake,’ katara mutters, ‘at least i think you are. i don’t know you very well, if you’ll excuse me.’

 

a ragged breath leaves his lips. his chest rises and falls jagged, like an unfitting puzzle piece.

 

her fingers trace his features, trailing the dark eyebrow, the nose- everything except for the splash of red on his left side. he may be fire nation, but katara would never let anyone touch her scars without her permission; and he deserves privacy, at least.

 

‘wake up,’ her vocal cords have betrayed her. ‘i may hate you but _please_ wake up.’

 

that still sounds too desperate. ‘i don’t want anyone to die while _i’m_ healing them.’

 

she brushes his shoulder. ‘wake _up,_ you ungrateful son of a bitch! before you starve to death!’

 

a groan comes from the back of his mind. ‘go away, azula.’

 

azula. daughter of the shogūn. maybe he and zuko were friends and he took the name to remember. but that’s no way to think. she needs to _hate_ him.

 

but that name softens something inside of her, so she hardens her wall.

 

‘fine,’ she hisses, ‘betray your ship for all i care. some soldier _you_ are!’

 

she really doesn’t want him to die.

 

his eyes flicker. for a moment she thinks she’s imagining it, but then he’s on his feet with a yell. ‘who are you!’ he shouts.

 

‘ungrateful oni,’ katara snorts. ‘can’t even recognise that _i’m_ the one who saved you from dying of hypothermia.’

 

‘no. your name.’

 

katara sighs, crossing her arms. ‘i’m katara.’

 

‘liar,’ he spits. ‘there are no katara’s in rima. there shouldn’t be _anyone, period.’_

 

‘what makes you say that?’

 

‘i- i knew the _real_ katara. she moved away from rima when she was four.’

 

katara feels funny, somewhere. ‘tell me _your_ name.’

 

the soldier brushes a hand over his scalp. ‘prince zuko.’

 

‘ _don’t lie!’_

he stomps towards her so that they can shout without the world hearing. ‘what makes you think i’m lying, exactly?’

 

katara clears her throat, and tips her head. ‘prince zuko of the fire nation died three years ago in an agni kai.’ she lowers her head. ‘it was in all the broadcasts.’

 

her eyes rise to meet his, and he struggles to form words before speaking. ‘they think i’m dead.’

 

‘prove to me you’re prince zuko. say something the zuko i know would say.’

 

‘the blue spirit is my favourite legend. my mom told me all about how he would steal from the rich and give to the poor.’ he mutters.

 

‘it _is_ you!’

 

it’s him.

 

katara is _this_ close to embracing him, but even old zuko didn’t like to be touched much.

 

‘say something katara would say!’ he says.

 

katara thinks. ‘the painted lady was _way_ cooler than the blue spirit,’

 

zuko’s frown breaks for a smile of familiarity. he steps forward into her coolness and katara is wrapped in an _embrace_ of all things. he leaks warmth, and memories of innocence all over her, and katara can feel blossoms of regal flames rushing through her bloodstream.

 

 

 

 

‘how did you get here?’ he’s not allowed to leave the bed.

 

‘i left sokka and my father not too long after you were- you left.’

 

‘say the words. i was banished. exiled. whichever word you prefer.’

 

‘fine, you were exiled.’

 

katara places seal blubber on her tongue, feeling it melt.

‘why did you come here?’ zuko asks.

 

ice grabs hold of her, and the ugly soul-infection threatens to make itself known. but she will not lie to her best friend, either.

 

‘i found out the shogūn killed my mother.’

 

zuko averts his eyes. ‘i’m sorry.’ something sounds different in his voice, like a gate slamming.       

 

‘i don’t need pi-’

 

‘that’s something we have in common.’

 

katara sighs. ‘i’m sorry, zuko. i know. i remember.’

 

zuko reaches for her and runs a thumb over her koi fish.

 

katara smiles.

 

‘did you touch my scar while i was…passed out.’

 

‘no.’

 

‘thank you.’

 

zuko breathes a mournful thread of charcoal-black smoke.

‘rhija thinks i’m dead, too.’ katara shrugs.

 

zuko’s good eye widens. ‘wha- what?’

 

‘my mother died because- because they were looking for me. she had no right, though.’ katara feels the familiar stab of grief. ‘she had _no right_ to die for me. she was always scared of my bending, always thought it was an omen. she had _no fucking right.’_

 

she doesn’t even notice the tears until zuko’s thumb smooths over it. a heavyhearted smile graces his lips. ‘but she _did,_ katara. she _did_ die for you, and doubting that is putting her sacrifice to waste. she’d want you to be happy.’

 

‘i know, but-’

 

‘my mother died for me, too. after lu ten died my father tried to take uncle’s throne. azulon said that he would have to know the pain of losing an only son.’

 

katara sighs, and before she can register what she’s doing she presses a kiss to the body of the dragon scar-mark. then she pulls back, shame colouring her cheeks. ‘i’m so sorry! i really am,’ she squeaks, leaning away from him.

 

‘it’s okay,’ he whispers.

 

‘i hate it when you lie.’

 

‘i’m not lying. it’s okay.’

 

and to prove it, his calloused hands take her chin and warm lips brush over her koi fish.

 

 

 

 

‘i’ll go with you. i think it’s awkward, anyway, having your ex-princess hanging around.’

 

 

 

tears are pooling in her eyes, spilling like liquid diamonds down her amber cheeks, leaning away from the warmth of fire. she curls a strand of bronze hair around her index.

 

sobs collect in her throat. ‘i’m sorry i didn’t tell you before. i’m so damn _sorry._ ’

 

‘just tell me what it is,’ zuko hushes her. so often it’s the opposite. well, really, it’s an equal amount of calming-the-other-down.

 

‘i can’t. you’re still loyal to your father.’

 

zuko’s silent for a minute. ‘i’m not so sure about that,’ he whispers, ‘i haven’t been for a while. not since i learned about kya.’

 

katara freezes, and raises her eyes to meet his. his left hand reaches for his topknot. the rest of his hair _has_ been growing out anyway( _someone_ threw out the scissors (okay, she just likes longer hair)), but it’s still surprising when he pulls the gold crown from his head, letting it roll on the earth like a marble.

the hair falls about his face in a mussed appearance of blackness. katara’s tears have ceased.

 

‘then is it okay if i tell you?”

 

‘just do it.’

 

‘i have to kill the shogūn.’

 

zuko is silent, watching with quiet calculation, as if she held the capacity to lie about that.

then he grips her shoulders. ‘down with the shogūn.’


	3. part 3: townspeople

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katara and Zuko make their way to the Fire Nation in pursuit of Ozai, and come across a town of abandoned people; dictated by a metal monster on the hill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I've changed the formatting! It took hours but it's finally worked! And this shall be the normal formatting for the rest of the story.

part 3: townspeople

 

The flames soar towards her, and she squirms away without a singed hair. Deadly venom seems to seethe from her fingertips, worming her way around him. with a yell a fire whip slices through the water.

 

Katara ducks beneath a ball of death that hits the metal wall with a sizzle. Bringing water to her hands, she kicks it, discs of ice splintering against the heels of Zuko’s shoes.

 

‘Bastard, you can’t do that!’ she screeches, breathing mist and freezing it.

 

‘There aren’t such rules in the real world, _sweetheart._ ’

 

Flame meets her ice wall, evaporating most of it.

 

Anger pulses through her and she jumps over another fireball. Fireball after fireball plagues her, relentless in their thirst for burning skin.

 

Katara stumbles backwards so that her back hits the wall. Zuko runs towards her and she gnashes her teeth, ducking out to his side. Water strikes his clothes and he yelps in anger.

 

It’s Katara’s turn to yelp when flame sears her shoulder. Ropes of flame pass behind her, threatening to burn up the tunic. Katara stumbles towards him, knowing it’d be useless to duck _or_ jump now.

 

Still, a whip of water tears through the flame and she runs, water tossed behind her. She hears his grunts of anger, frustration.

 

‘I’m sorry it had to come to this!’ She sends a wave of water towards him, and Zuko points towards it.

 

‘Wait!’ Katara turns it into a thick cumulonimbus cloud and lightning spews from his fingertips, mingling with liquid, stirring and stirring like an elixir, wearing both of the benders down.

 

Finally they drop to their knees at the same time.

 

Then he’s beside her, panting.

 

The silence is cut with a chuckle from her. Zuko smiles down at her, pushing dark hair out of her eyes. Katara’s heart skips- she _hates it_ when it does that. It’s rare, but when it does happen it makes her feel like a garden of butterflies has been released inside her.

 

 

The remainder of the water in her skins is used for healing. They sit on the steps of the temple, Katara’s head on his shoulder. Greenish blue water presses into an icicle gash.

 

‘You and i can generate storms,’ Zuko says while she does this. ‘I’d say we’re about ready to go to Rhija and start making a nuisance of ourselves _there._ ’

 

Katara smiles. ‘I’d say you’re about right.’

 

 

 

Jang Hui is pitiful. The water makes her blood sluggish, and she can barely manage a mouthful of food _or_ ‘fresh’ water.

 

It’s because of the factory. It sits on top of the river like an enormous metal tyrant, pipes twisting into deformed steel legs, spewing venomous, fuel-filled blood into the element that she controls. It is, ironically, the Painted Lady’s river.

 

Weaving through the stores, somewhere she buys the outfit. Hiding it, she makes her way back to camp.

 

Sitting beside zuko, she blocks out the taste of sewerage. ‘Zuko?’ she asks after a mouthful.

 

‘Yeah?’

 

‘These people need a hero,’ she whispers.

 

He sends her a sharp stare. If she were anyone else she’d think it cold, judgemental. But she is herself. ‘What do you suggest we do?’ Zuko asks.

 

‘There was always the Painted Lady. I have- I have an outfit. Heavy and uncomfortable, but it might get me through without being noticed.’

 

Zuko ponders this, before sighing. ‘I suppose it’s time to show you my secret.’

 

He follows this with a snort at the innuendo. He moves over to his pack and pulls out a black outfit. ‘Look away, Katara.’

 

Katara blushes and turns away, keeping her focus on the factory in the distance. Katara frowns, as she sees, even now, the ugly waste it spews like an unused meal. a growl settles deep in her throat.

 

‘Katara. You can look now.’

 

Katara turns around and barely recognizes him. He’s draped in black head to toe, and on his face sits a painted blue mask, white sneer painted across its features, eyes like pits.

 

There’s also the swords, and he pulls them out, making a slicing motion. ‘Handy weapons.’

 

The mask warps his voice so that it’s even raspier. Katara doesn’t notice that she’s chewing the flesh around her fingernails until Zuko’s pulled her hand away from her mouth. ‘Do I look okay?’ he asks.

 

Katara doesn’t know what to say to that. ‘It sure is a good disguise, but… um, I don’t know what to say.’ she rubs her scalp. ‘After all, men are _so_ hard to compliment.’ Of course. He’s a man now. He’s eighteen and she sixteen. Two years past her marriage age. She wonders if her father also thinks her dead.

 

Katara distracts herself with a chuckle. ‘ _Your_ turn to look away,’ she says, already tugging on the hem of her leggings. Zuko squeaks and obeys. ‘and no peeking,’ she insists.

 

When he finally is allowed to look, his jaw drops. She knows it’s heavy, and unconventional, and the red paint on her cheeks might be overdoing it, but-

 

‘Holy crap.’ his jaw struggles to form words. His eyes scan from head to toe, and he gulps, suspiciously tilting his hips away from her line of sight.

 

She giggles. ‘Do i look good, your majesty?’

 

‘Ye- maybe- ugh.’ He holds his hands in front of his cheeks. ‘Fuck,’ he groans.

 

‘Come on, you can’t let your sexual urges grab hold of you now-’

 

‘ _Katara.’_

‘It’s _fine,_ I’m _joking_ ,’ she sniggers. ‘I’ll allow you a few minutes to yourself, Prince Zuko.’

 

He gulps again. ‘Thank you, Katara.’

She throws her head back, laughing, before saying finally, ‘males,’ and walking off. She doesn’t want to come back for about an hour… just in case.

 

 

When the hour is past she returns, and he is thankfully dressed (she will never recover from walking in on Sokka when he was doing _that_ ), and they’re set to head off.

 

Zuko looks at the sluggish water. ‘You’ll be _fine,_ Zuko. Follow my lead.’ He smiles at her thankfully, and slips his hand into hers. Katara tests to see the fog’s supportability of his weight. Finally she keeps a hand suspended, Zuko following her lead. Then they run across the water, silent as the spirits themselves.

 

They reach the factory, and soon enough there’s a supply of medicine in their supply. Once they cross the river again, Katara leads Zuko to a medicine house. Inside, people are sickly, dying of preventable illnesses. Katara feels sorrow at the fact that she knows there are a few that are too far gone.

 

Feeling for their diagnosis, she gives them what she can. It’s all she has to spare, in fact.

 

 

Two days of this. And on the third day Zuko speaks up.

 

‘You’re cutting the symptoms, not the cause, Katara!’ he hisses.

 

‘What else can we do?’

 

‘You’re going to be here your whole life unless you _cut the damn cause._ Which just so happens to be that factory.’

 

‘I know what the cause is. i just don’t know how to _cut_ it. _You’re_ the one with the swords.’

 

‘You’re the one with the icicles.’

 

‘Hey- _wait, that’s it._ ’

 

Katara turns to him with a new sense of excitement. ‘Buckle up, Prince Zuko. There may be casualties.’

 

 

 

Up, over. They work their ways through the metal intestines of the factory. Water in the pipes. _Water in the pipes._ She takes her position with Zuko. ‘Be careful,’ she says, taking position in front of him.

 

Katara flexes her fingers and water shatters the glass. She hears a scream, but she _can’t_ stop. The metal is hardening, the hallways filling with water. ‘Zuko, _run_!’

 

She maps their escape route, until they’re out. In the distance, she sees it…flashes of gold gathering in the lower part of Jang Hui. ‘Zuko!’ she cries and they run, run, run until the port is _so close._

 

Katara’s free hand spurs up mist, consuming them in white. They then stand upon the port, looking at the people; faces of deliverance. Katara feels her heart soften as she sees a boy clutching his mother. She had been sick. Katara had managed to do something right.

 

‘So _you’re_ the painted lady?’ the soldier asks, stepping toward her. ‘And i’m guessing _you’re_ the blue spirit.’

Fire bursts towards Katara, but is quickly diminished into simple sparks.

 

‘Your factory is no more,’ she says. There’s no shaking. She has to admit that she’s proud of that. ‘Leave. Or we will make you.’

 

Something wavers in the soldiers’ faces. ‘We can rebuild it.’

 

‘Your metal has hardened, your hallways are full to the brim with water. _Leave._ ’

 

Katara raises an arm. Flicking with a form of malevolent grace, a wave tears their legs from ground, and the soldiers are in the river. ‘Can you swim?’ Katara says, not sparing them a glance.

 

They thrash violently. Another flick and their boats are carried closer. ‘Leave now or I shall destroy the only chance of survival you have.’

 

With a yell they scramble for the boats and leave. Katara smirks.

 

‘Hey! You’re not the painted lady!’

 

Katara’s hand glides up to the red paint, and it smears onto her fingertips. Her eyes widen.

 

‘You’re a _fake!’_

 

‘Hey hey _hey!’_ Zuko says, stepping in between Katara and the townspeople. ‘She _saved your lives_ from those men. How _dare_ you question her! Just because her real name isn’t the Painted Lady doesn’t mean she _isn’t_ the Painted Lady!’

 

She can feel their scrutiny, making way for logic. He feels it too.

 

Finally, Shu sighs. ‘You are right, Blue Spirit. We owe you our lives. Thank you.’

 

‘You’re welcome.’

 

Words pass and night falls, and Zuko leaves with a feeling of rightness.


End file.
